“I’ve only ever seen you wear your sleeves rolled or a T-shirt,” he went on to say.
“Don’t you like what I’m wearing?” I looked down at my light blue button down shirt, dark jeans, and my favourite blue loafers. “I thought I did pretty good today.”
He hummed, and walking back over to me, he slid his hand around my neck and kissed me. “You look hot. You always look hot.”
I licked my lips at the lingering taste of him. “Mmm. And you taste good.”
He slid his hand down over his crotch and readjusted himself. “Goddammit. I seem to have this reoccurring problem when you’re around.”
I waggled my eyebrows at him. “I’m more than happy to help you out with that.” I pushed him over to the piano so his back was pressed against it, and I licked my lips. “Before I do this, you should know something.” This could be a mood killer, but I didn’t want to get side-tracked. “There’s another reason I’m wearing my sleeves rolled down.”
“What’s that?”
“Tattoos are distinguishable. People remember seeing them. I want to go to the bookstore in town tonight because I told Lance the Tosser that’s where Yanni worked, and I want to see if he turns up.”
Andrew tilted his head, his brows furrowed. “So, it’s not really a date for me?”
“Yes it is. It’s just an added bonus that I get to take you, and then the jazz bar is all for you.”
“Why don’t you want Lance the Tosser to turn up at the bookstore?”
“I think he’s the reason Yanni disappeared.”
Andrew blinked. “Really?”
“I can’t be sure.” I then explained my trip to the college in town and how Yanni was seen with a black eye, my resulting phone call to Lance, and just the skin-crawling feeling I got from him.
Andrew was thoughtful for moment. “So you’re taking me on a covert operation to see if your client is really an asshole.”
“Yes.”
“And if he is?”
“Then we cross that bridge when we get to it.”
He nodded slowly. “Right.”
I took a step back. “Am I forgiven?”
“Nope,” he said, then he palmed his dick again. “I believe you were about to help me with this.”
“I won’t be forgiven unless I suck your dick?”
He blushed or was turned on. It was hard to tell the difference. “It’s a start.”
Smiling, I dropped to my knees, undid his fly, and pulled out his hardening dick. I looked up at him to find him leaning back with his elbows on the piano, looking back down at me. His eyes were fixed on mine, his mouth hanging open, waiting, anticipating… It was fucking hot.
Without breaking eye contact, I opened my mouth, flattened my tongue, and took him in. His whole body reacted, flinched and writhed, and his eyes fluttered closed. It might have been a start, but I finished him in no time.
We cabbed it into the city, which was rather uneventful. Andrew told me about his day, I told him about mine, and before long, we were downtown. We got out of the cab and started walking up toward the bookstore, when Andrew stopped.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Can I hold your hand?”
It was funny how simple words could make your heart trip over itself. “Um, yes?” I said. I was pretty sure I was wearing that ridiculous smile again.
Andrew exhaled deeply. “I just wanted to ask. Some people don’t like it; some people are too afraid that some random stranger will make a big deal of seeing two guys holding hands. Some people are just not hand-holders, and that’s okay. I never asked you before if you liked to hold—”
“Andrew?”
“Yes?”
I put mine out, palm up, between us. “Shut up and hold my hand.”
He smiled but kind of growled as he entwined our fingers. “I still haven’t forgiven you for the ruse to take me to a bookstore. It’s like a fake-date.”
“It’s not a fake-date,” I protested. I leaned in and whispered as we walked, “But I could blow you in the bathrooms at the bookstore if you want. You know, to be forgiven.”
He went red from his forehead down under his collar. He looked around as if someone walking near us might have heard. “Spencer!”
I pretended like it was no big deal, because it wasn’t, and squeezed his fingers. “This is nice. I think I like going on dates and holding hands.”
He stopped walking and stared at me, causing the people behind us to balk and have to sidestep us. “Sorry,” he said to them and pulled me to the wall out of the flow of traffic. He looked concerned, or confused, possibly both. “Have you ever walked down the street holding a guy’s hand? I mean, for real?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
He sighed and his shoulders fell. “I’m sorry, I should have realised. I shouldn’t have been so blasé about it.”
“You weren’t blasé. In fact, you asked me if it was okay, and that was kinda nice.”